Best Laid Plans
by MissTempleton
Summary: When you're trying to plan out the rest of your life, sometimes you have to take precautions; and sometimes your plans go awry. A gruesome murder threatens to overshadow Cec and Alice's big day; does Soo hold the key?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"She wouldn't."

"Mate, you don't know that."

"Miss Fisher? I know her well enough. And so do you."

"I could at least ask, couldn't I?"

Bert shook his head. "Don't you think she's done enough for us, over the years? C'mon, Cec, be reasonable."

Cec looked gloomily at his hands and muttered, mostly to himself, "Alice set her heart on it, though."

"Well, she'd no right," said Bert in typically forthright fashion.

Cec jerked a shoulder at that. "Don't I know it. But do you want to be the one to tell her you didn't like to ask?"

"Not my job, is it?"

Silence.

"I mean, push comes to shove, it's just a car. We drive cars every day."

"No, we drive the taxi she _gave_ us every day. And the car _you're_ referring to's a Hispano-bleeding-Suiza."

"But it's Alice's big day!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I coulda sworn it was your big day as well, and spitting in the eye of the lady who's been your best mate, present company excepting, for more'n five years doesn't look to me like a smart way to celebrate!"

On this belligerent note, something barely credible happened. Historians would, in future years, read the words set down on the page and decide that your correspondent had overindulged in mind-altering drugs, because a mistake had surely been made. But no, it must be firmly stated:

Albert Johnson, citizen of the great and growing City of Melbourne, taxi-driver and supporter of the downtrodden masses, set down an unfinished pint of beer on the counter of the bar and left. To make the point more firmly, he slammed the door of the bar behind him.

What was worse (and has sentenced this story to the shelves of Improbable Fiction for all time), Cecil Yates (citizen etc, etc,) then did exactly the same thing.

The fact that he was taller, had longer legs, and was trying to catch up with the man in front of him meant that he was only a few seconds behind Bert (who, in his heart of hearts, wanted to be caught up with anyway, to finish the argument properly) when he left the pub and followed him up the alley.

On the plus side, that meant they both fell over the body at the same time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Phryne, no."

"Oh, come on, Jack, I've seen a murder or two before."

"I'm well aware of that." As he spoke, the Detective Chief Inspector was shrugging on his coat and reaching for his hat. "But this one's different. Collins has already sent the rookie home with a sedative from the Coroner."

"Mac carries sedatives?" Phryne asked meditatively. "That could come in handy. How did I miss that before now?"

"Probably because you don't expect someone whose client's already deceased to give them help sleeping," replied Jack sardonically. "But you can ask her about it next time you see her," and as his wife opened her mouth to offer a helpful suggestion, placed his finger on her lips, "which _isn't_ going to be tonight."

She humphed. He leaned in to speak quietly, not wishing the other occupants of 221B The Esplanade to hear. "It's ugly. Sadistic, almost. Possibly a sick ritual of some kind. And you're no ghoul. Let me deal with this part." He backed off, and looked her in the eye. "Please?"

As his stolid gaze met her stormy one, he received help from an unexpected quarter.

"Mumma?"

A small voice made them both turn to see a slight figure in a nightdress, holding tight to the bannister support half-way up the stairs with one hand, and Edward Bear with the other.

"Elizabeth!" exclaimed Phryne. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"The telephone woke me up. What's a settive?" asked the apple of her parents' collective eyes.

Phryne glanced back at Jack, rolled her eyes expressively _Oh, go on then_ and started across the hall to gather up the stray waif. "Something to help you sleep, darling. Like the hot milk I rather suspect you're going to need now. Wave goodbye to your father, and let's go and flirt with Mr Butler."

Elizabeth giggled woozily and flapped a hand at Jack, who lifted his hat to both his womenfolk and reached for the door. Stepping through, he closed it gently and leaned his full weight on it in momentary relief. There was a part of the story that she was bound to find out before long, and he wanted to marshal his defences before that happened. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped off the porch and strode towards the waiting car. The driver saluted smartly and opened the door for him. Such were the dignities of rank, after all.

"Where to first, sir?"

Jack winced. The lad was keen, he had to give him that. But the decibel level was more geared for the parade ground.

"The locus first, constable, thank you. Then probably on to the morgue." He tried, by keeping his own voice down, to drop the hint.

"Little Bourke Street? Yes sir. Right away, sir."

The hint had not been taken.

It was a warm night; so it wasn't bad luck but rather good sense that the window of the dining room was open, which looked out towards the front of the house. It was slightly more bad luck that Phryne had wandered back into that room in search of a bracelet she'd misplaced earlier in the evening. Even worse luck that she'd asked her maid, Lin Soo, to help in the hunt. Monumentally disastrous luck that they both happened to be in the vicinity of the window when Jack's driver announced to the population of Greater St Kilda (Also Incorporating Tasmania) that they were heading to the Chinese quarter.

The two women straightened and regarded one another gravely. The door of the police vehicle was heard to close; they then heard the engine start, and the car drive away.

Without taking her eyes from Soo's, Miss Fisher raised her voice.

"Mr Butler?"

"Just pouring the milk, Miss, but can I help?"

"Could you get the Hispano out, please?"

There was a short silence, and then a voice was heard gently adjuring Miss Elizabeth not to drink it quite yet, because it would burn her mouth. Then the factotum appeared in the doorway. A brief glance from one woman to the other made his gaze more than usually wooden, but he did no more than incline his head.

"Soo, if you could perhaps keep an eye on Miss Elizabeth, I will be back in a moment."

The maid walked past him into the kitchen; as Phryne strode towards the stairs to seek out a change of clothes, she affected not to notice a hand caught, squeezed and released. She was perfectly confident that within a matter of minutes her car would be waiting at the kerbside, with her maid sitting primly in the passenger seat.

Tobias Butler was many things; among them chef, cocktail waiter, valet, armourer, bodyguard, nursemaid, and – to one particular member of the household staff - worshipper.

He was also not a fool.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Jack's car pulled up at the end of the alleyway just as the body was being loaded into the ambulance for transfer to the morgue. When she saw him, Dr Macmillan held up a hand to stop the stretcher party.

"Jack. Hope you've digested your dinner because this is pretty ugly."

"So I was told. Not just a straightforward stab wound?"

"Oh, there's a stab wound all right," replied Mac. "It's the extra bells and whistles that had me send your constable home. He was messing up my crime scene something awful."

"I'll follow you along to the morgue shortly, but show me?"

Even as he spoke, there was the sound of a very familiar engine roar, followed by a squealing of brakes. The Inspector closed his eyes and groaned. Without turning round, he responded to the patter of well-shod feet. "Miss Fisher, I thought we had agreed …"

"Sorry, Jack, but I'm afraid Soo was most insistent."

At that, he turned to look at his wife, and the small, Oriental maid at her shoulder. Soo returned his gaze impassively. He had a suspicion that the insistence was rather on the mistress' side than the maid's but resigned himself.

He turned back to Mac. "Go ahead."

Mac lifted the blanket covering the body. "Stab wound, as described. Neatly under the ribs. However …" and she pulled the blanket further across the body.

As she did so, Jack's hand went up to cover his mouth. Phryne's jaw dropped, and Soo hissed a sharp gasp through her teeth, muttering something under her breath.

Mac shot her a glance. "What did you say?"

Soo folded her lips stubbornly. Her eyes, though, were focussed on the body as if trying to commit it to photographic memory.

Mac shrugged, and gave up. Turning back to the Inspector, she briefly described the wound.

"I'll need to do more work to establish which happened first of the two wounds, but this is a reasonably coarse slicing of the skin over the pectoral muscle. Oval shaped, around four inches long and three wide."

Jack swallowed, nodded and gestured to Mac to cover the body once more. Finding his voice, he asked in slightly gruff tones, "Is the fragment of skin here, too?"

Mac shook her head. "I don't think your people found it, but if they do, I want it."

Jack started feeling better as soon as the world included fewer large, open, gory wounds and asked quickly, "Where are my people now?"

Mac jerked her head towards the public house. "In there, with the witnesses who discovered the body."

"In there?" Jack scowled. He'd have someone's hide for this. "It's after ten."

"Give them a break, Jack. Those witnesses had a pretty rough time. Anyway, I think you'll mind less when you find out who it is."

The body having now been loaded, she sketched a salute and hopped into the front seat of the ambulance next to the driver. The 221B contingent compared notes by the efficient means of raising an eyebrow each and made for the door of the pub. Jack courteously held it open for Phryne and Soo to walk through first, and almost changed his mind about following when he heard her exclamation.

"Hello, Hugh! Bert, Cec dear, what on earth are you two doing here?"

All three of the occupants of the bar stools tried belatedly to hide the glasses in front of them, though only Sergeant Collins was close enough to the bar to be able to sneak his onto the counter beneath.

All three, though, were looking paler-faced than usual, and the most senior policeman there decided that he preferred them to be recuperating from their shock and able to answer his enquiries. He therefore nodded away the landlord who had come scurrying out to offer his defence, pulled up a chair, and said lightly, "thanks for providing sustenance to the witnesses, Sergeant; and thank you, gentlemen, for staying long enough to talk to us."

All present relaxed slightly, but not even Albert had the nerve to ask for a top-up. Phryne and Soo inserted themselves at a table by the door as surreptitiously as possible, and watched with interest.

"So, Collins?" asked Jack.

The sergeant cleared his throat as he pulled out his notebook. "The deceased was discovered shortly before nine-thirty this evening, by C – Mr Yates and Mr Johnson" he corrected himself hurriedly. "There was at that time no sign of the attacker, and they were not aware of anyone in the vicinity."

"Then?"

"Then Mr Yates remained with the body and Mr Johnson returned to … well, here, to telephone the police."

Jack looked at Cec with renewed respect. "You hung around a murder locus on your own, with nothing to defend yourself?"

Cec jerked his head dismissively. "Nothing but fists of steel, Inspector. Take more than some chancer in a back alley to catch me out." He grinned. "Anyway, nobody tried anything, so no worries."

Jack gave a half-smile in return, and turned back to Hugh Collins. "You searched the area?"

"Well, sir, we did our best. It's dark, and Chalky wasn't really … feeling that great," said Hugh hurriedly. "But as far as we could see, there was no weapon, and no sign of …" he swallowed visibly, "the … other thing."

At the mention of the missing section of torso, all those present who'd seen the evidence blanched a bit. Those who were blessed sank the rest of their brandies; those who weren't looked on enviously; and one in particular decided he didn't need to outstay the landlord's welcome any further.

"Do we have an identity?" asked the Inspector.

"Yes, sir," answered Hugh. "There was a wallet in one of the coat pockets. Seth Tombs, an address in Prahran."

"And nobody stole it? Convenient," Jack observed quietly. Then rose to his feet.

"I'm going to the morgue, but …" he raised a hand and the landlord magically reappeared, "I need three more brandies here. You'll send the bill to City South Police Station, care of Detective Chief Inspector Robinson, and it'll be settled within licensing hours." He paused while the landlord swallowed his bile at having to bow to corrupt police who couldn't take a little thing like ritual slaughter without resort to aquavit, and then turned to the ladies who were already standing up from their chairs by the door.

"Miss Fisher, I ..."

"Jack, sorry, I'm not coming with you to the morgue."

He had already been rehearsing his argument, and the two – no, three – backups and so he was entirely wrong-footed, and could only gape.

What was worse – she didn't even laugh, but strolled closer and spoke to him in a low voice. "I'm going to drive Soo home. There's something she knows, and I don't think we're going to find out what it is at the morgue."

These were the times, he reflected, when he didn't just love Miss Fisher. He adored her. In a totally professional sense, and in a way that he would be prepared to set down on paper for the Chief Commissioner if necessary.

[The CC wishes it to be known that he prefers to read less nauseating matter, but thanks DCI Robinson all the same for the kind thought].

"I'll be home as soon as I can," he offered, and they both took the farewell with a deceptive ease.

It was pure coincidence that, after a ten-second gap from parting at the pub door, both looked back.

A smile may have been exchanged. Also a wink. There was, after all, no law against either.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Let's go home." Phryne nudged Soo, and they made their way to the Hispano. The maid was usually taciturn, so her lack of verbal response was unremarkable. However, when they returned to St Kilda, Phryne took the unusual step of following her to the kitchen, where Mr Butler, enjoying a quiet cup of tea, immediately sprang to his feet.

"May I be of assistance, Miss?" he asked. In doing so, he glanced at Soo, and stiffened.

 _So_ , thought Phryne, _I was right._

"A brandy would be welcome, thank you, Mr B," she said cheerfully. "Soo might want one too."

"Thank you, I would like tea," the girl disclaimed, and busied herself with the kettle while Mr Butler went in search of the brandy. Phryne was, it appeared, meant to take herself off out of the servants' quarters.

Phryne, on the other hand, had no such plans, and was quite prepared to be Surly with Servants (as the Bard had so beautifully put it) when the need arose. She drew out a chair, put both elbows on the table and rested her chin on them. Soo affected not to notice any of this, and gazed at the kettle intently.

"A watched pot never boils, I'm told," remarked Phryne conversationally. "I, on the other hand, am prepared to wait until hell freezes over to find out what it was you said when you saw the injury on that corpse."

Soo turned to face her employer with a hunted expression.

"I could have sworn you whispered the name of your uncle, my former lover," Phryne said quietly. "Why was that?"

But Soo was already shaking her head violently. "No! No, on the grave of my grandmother, No!"

Mr Butler returned to the room and placed a glass of amber liquid in front of Phryne, who had elected to ignore the fact that, emotion set to one side, Soo's grandmother (or at least, the one she knew best) was pointedly extant. She sipped it gratefully and looked up at him.

"Normally, Mr B, I'd do you the courtesy of inviting you to leave the room at this point. As I'm not a complete fool, nor oblivious to your loyalty to Soo, I would suggest you stay. But keep out of it, please."

"Thank you, Miss," was all he said in reply, and removed himself to the corner of the room, folding his hands before him and showing every sign of relaxing – if a guard dog could be said to relax when its asset was so plainly under threat.

"Soo?" Phryne turned back to her maid. "You were saying? Or rather," she said with a hint of acidity, "denying?"

"I did not say my uncle's name," said Soo in low, vehement tones.

"No? Then what did you say, if not 'Lin Chung'"

There was a short silence. Soo pressed her lips, and gazed unseeingly at the window for inspiration. It came, though, from the opposite corner of the room, in direct contravention of Miss Fisher's order.

"You might as well tell us," said Tobias Butler. "Miss Fisher will find out eventually, and someone's died. It may have been just, but it must be discovered, my dear."

Phryne didn't lift her eyes from her maid for an instant, but did resolve to let her butler decide for himself in future when he should and should not intervene.

Soo looked back at them both; but if Phryne had been expecting tears, she was disappointed. There was a fierce anger in her eyes that made them almost black.

"Very well. I did not say Lin Chung. I said Ling Chi."

"Ling Chi?" Phryne's brow furrowed, perplexed. "I don't think …" she turned to look at Mr Butler but he appeared to be equally lost.

"The death of a thousand cuts," said Soo. "It is a punishment in my country. Others do not use it, I think. It is a torture most inhuman. The prisoner is bound, and sections are cut from their skin, gradually, and they are in great pain. The process begins with …"

"The chest," realised Phryne. Soo nodded. "So you think this was a ritual killing, perhaps interrupted?"

Soo could only nod again.

"Do you know who it might have been?" asked Phryne carefully.

Soo looked up, and Phryne had to give her her due. She considered. She winced. But when she had thought, she said, quietly, "No."

And Phryne believed her. She stood, and murmured her thanks; they had all been through quite enough for one night, and she wanted to do some thinking before the Inspector returned. Taking her brandy with her, she decamped to the parlour, where a fire had been lit in the grate; sinking onto one end of the couch, she propped her cheek on her fist and gazed into the flames, her mind working furiously.

An hour later, the rest of the household was abed. Mr Butler had stoked the fire and bowed his way out, and Phryne was nodding over the remains of her brandy when the front door opened quietly.

She didn't call, but looked up; attracted by the lights, a well-loved face appeared around the door. Seeing the person he sought, he crossed the room to exchange greetings that had become habitual, but never offhand. Then he straightened, and smiled.

"Hello."

"Hello."

Sometimes love didn't need to be more eloquent.

"Jack, I spoke to Soo, and there's something you need to know."

He'd gone to pour himself a whisky, and turned with it in his hand. "Oh?"

"She thinks it was a ritual killing. The death of a thousand cuts. I've been trying to work it out, and all I can conclude is that they must have been interrupted by our red-raggers."

He sipped from his glass. "Go on."

She hesitated. "Well, that's sort of it. Soo says she doesn't know who it might be, and I believe her. Should we go and see Lin, do you think?"

He moved to perch on the other end of the couch, and lifted her feet to his lap. Then surprised her by shaking his head.

"No, I don't think we should do that."

"Jack, whyever not?" she started up in astonishment. Surely he wasn't letting jealousy of her former lover take control of his thinking?

"Two reasons," he said, stretching an arm along the back of the couch, the better to relax, and sipping his whisky. "First, if it was a ritual killing, the chances are the killer would have left the body parts behind. After all, this is a criminal. Why keep souvenirs?"

A brutal point, but a valid one, she concluded. "And the second?"

"It wasn't the chest wound that killed him. Mac says he was dead already from the stabbing."

A short silence while Miss Fisher processed information that didn't match her own investigation. She sifted it. She rejected everything she had thought she'd known. She had only one remaining question.

"So, who was he?"

Jack smiled a little. "We need to do some checks in the morning, but I'm hoping we'll be able to get a close acquaintance to come to the morgue to confirm that the recently deceased is an accountant from Prahran by the name of Seth Tombs."

Mildly affronted at having an interesting case become apparently prosaic, Phryne scowled. "Your reasoning?"

"The little matter of the wallet with his calling card, among other things," said Jack mildly.

"Which the murderer happened to forget to take away, despite having coped brilliantly with lifting body parts?" she asked scathingly. "Come on, Jack, you're going to need to do better than that!"

He drained his drink, and stood. "I can do a great deal better than that, but would prefer to demonstrate in greater privacy than this, if you don't mind."

She glared at him. He relented. "You're right, of course. There are still lots of questions to be answered, but I don't plan to waste hours of fruitless energy if I can start tomorrow with certain knowledge of the identity of my victim. So, in the meantime, Miss Fisher?"

The question was more finely judged than it appeared. A "Mrs Robinson" at that point would have been fatal to his purpose.

Miss Fisher, on the other hand, saw the logic of his argument, and the attraction of the gentleman before her with his hand outstretched, inviting her to join him at the marital couch.

Despite occasional appearances to the contrary, she was – in some matters at least – enthusiastically human.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The minutiae of a Chief Inspector's role swamped Jack the following morning, and it was past eleven a.m. before he managed to get to the morgue. By then, Hugh Collins had already managed to visit Prahran and scoop up one Obadiah Dawlish.

If a single word could be used to sum up a person in all possible aspects, Mr Dawlish's word would be 'moist'.

It described his eyes. It described his clammy hand as he feebly greeted the Inspector. It described his garments – pale linen, but undeniably the worse for a few days' wear in poor weather.

It described perfectly his response when shown the face of the deceased. He flourished a flaccid handkerchief, and dabbed his eyes.

"It is, without question, my dear friend and companion of many years, Seth Tombs."

"You are quite sure?"

"But yes – here," Dawlish fumbled in his wallet, "here is a picture of us. Do you see, on the temple? He has this birthmark. That, at least, is still plainly visible." He gestured with shaking hand at the corpse. "Stabbed, you say? Oh, but that's quite dreadful."

Jack looked at the photograph. It was … grainy, but there were certainly two men looking at each other, and laughing. It was a happy moment. The man who wasn't Dawlish, clearly the younger of the two had his head turned to the right, flaunting a birthmark on his left temple. His golden hair was swept back from his brow with a careless hand, and he appeared the very image of youth and beauty.

Jack also looked at the rest of the photograph, and concluded that the men were good friends, who trusted one another. The rest, he could leave for another day and another prosecutor; he'd always found it easier to prioritise other forms of lawbreaking.

Dawlish took the photo back quickly, and gazed at it sorrowfully before carefully tucking it into his wallet.

"I'm afraid I have to ask," Jack said apologetically, "whether Mr Tombs had any enemies that you knew of?"

Dawlish shook his head. "Gracious, no. A dear man. So gentle. Thoughtful." The recollection overcame him and he buried his face in his handkerchief again, before surfacing to remark, "It seems impossible that he should be … dead. We were laughing together only yesterday."

"Yesterday?" asked Jack. "Was that the last time you saw him?"

"Indeed. We dined together, and then he went out - to meet someone."

"Did he say who?"

"I … oh dear, I don't believe he did," fretted Dawlish. "Do you think that whoever it was is the killer?"

"I would certainly like to find out where he went and when. He didn't keep a diary, I suppose?"

"Why yes – it would be in his pocket."

Jack pursed his lips and shook his head. "No. The only thing in his pockets was his wallet, with the calling cards and a little cash."

"But how odd! His latchkey, surely?"

"Not even that."

"Then I must go home immediately and get the locks changed!" exclaimed Dawlish. "Please excuse me, Chief Inspector."

"Of course. I'm afraid we won't be able to release the body straight away, but we will let you know as soon as possible."

Dawlish looked momentarily confused. "Oh yes. Yes, of course. A funeral. Yes, I must make arrangements. The cost will be considerable, of course, but no expense can be too great for a memorial of my dear friend. And perhaps the insurance …" he drifted off into pensive silence, then bustled out of the room.

Jack looked after him, head tipped quizzically to one side. "What did you make of that, Collins?" he asked idly.

"He seemed very upset, sir," answered the sergeant. "But I suppose the shock ..."

"I almost felt he was more worried about the locks than the murder. He certainly couldn't get away quickly enough."

As they were leaving the building, a shiny red car screeched to a halt and the driver greeted them with a cheery wave.

"Hello, Jack – hello, Hugh dear. Am I too late?"

"Too late for what, Miss Fisher?" asked the Inspector cautiously.

"Why, the identification! Is it Tombs?" she said.

"Now, Miss Fisher, you _know_ I can't discuss …"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. It _is_ him, isn't it?" she said. "So, are we going to the house now?"

Jack began to demur, and then paused, and smiled slightly. "No, I'd say … Collins, how long do you think a locksmith takes?"

"I suppose if you can get hold of one, an hour or so?" offered Hugh.

"Then let's go to the house … in an hour or so," suggested Jack. "In the meantime, Miss Fisher, do you have any plans for lunch?"

"Jack, what are you up to?" she said suspiciously.

"Why, nothing," he replied courteously. She narrowed her eyes. "Well – almost nothing," he admitted. "Let me explain over lunch. Collins, take the car back to the station."

The sergeant saluted and the two sleuths climbed into the Hispano.

"Where to?" asked Phryne as she let in the clutch.

"Have we time to go home?" he asked hopefully. An opportunity to see little Elizabeth Jane in the middle of the working day was not to be sneezed at, after all.

"If I drive fast enough, we do," she grinned. "Hold on to your hat, darling. I heard Mr B muttering about coral trout this morning."

Jack rolled his eyes and removed his hat altogether.

"Poached? With butter? Step on it, Mrs Robinson,"

She did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Lunch was delicious, and both the Robinson women were on excellent form. While they ate, Jack explained to them his concerns about Dawlish's behaviour, and Phryne's eyes lit up.

"So you're going to go to the house?"

He nodded. "I'm going to ask to look through Tombs' effects, for any hints as to the person he was meeting last night."

"Oh, Jack, you _have_ to let me come along!" exclaimed Phryne.

"Me too, Daddy!" piped up the tot. Her mother regarded her fondly – Elizabeth always loved a party.

"This isn't precisely a party, poppet," she explained with a smile. "I suspect it might be tricky for Daddy to explain why he brought his daughter along on an investigation."

"But you're going, Mumma!" was the response.

"She really isn't, Elizabeth," her father demurred hastily; then looked around in surprise that Mrs R hadn't argued.

Mrs R, however, had most definitely reverted to Miss F mode. Elbows most reprehensibly propped on the table in solid defiance of the maxim that All Joints On the Table Will Be Carved, she had steepled her fingers before her lips in thought, eyes alight.

"Actually, perhaps you're right," she mused. His relief was momentary. He realised almost immediately that he was _never_ right unless he agreed with Miss Fisher.

"I think I know a better way to go about it. I'm going to go and see Dot."

She sprang from her seat, and planted a firm kiss on the top of Elizabeth's head. "You'd better stay here this time, darling, but I promise to tell you all about it."

Mollified, Elizabeth slid from her seat and wandered into the kitchen to see if Mr Butler had any lollies that he didn't need.

"Phryne, what are you up to?" asked Jack suspiciously.

"Helping, Jack. Just helping," she assured him. "Can you get back to the station by yourself? I'm going to need the car."

He sighed and said he would telephone for someone to collect him, and as soon as she'd left, went to pick up the receiver.

"Collins. I need you to come over to St Kilda, and then we're going straight to Prahran."

With any luck, they'd get there before Miss Fisher started 'helping'.

There was certainly no sign of the Hispano when they arrived at Dawlish's address and rang the bell. Dawlish himself answered, and expressed surprise at the identity of his guests. If there was any disquiet, he certainly hid it well; but Jack, glancing over as he crossed the threshold, saw locks still worn with age, and so one question was answered and his suspicions found slightly firmer ground.

No hint of his thoughts was offered in his words, though. Explaining to Dawlish that they hoped there might be some record in the house of Tombs' meeting, they were shown into a study crowded with quaint objets d'art and very little sign of documentation.

"Is there perhaps any correspondence for Mr Tombs?" enquired Jack.

"Oh! Letters, and that sort of thing?" asked Dawlish vaguely. "I suppose … let me see …"

He started aimlessly opening drawers, while Jack and Hugh watched patiently. The process was interrupted, though, when the doorbell was heard to ring again and their host went to answer it.

Jack's heart sank. Surely not so soon? But the gushing tones from the front hall were unmistakeable. Dawlish had left the study door wide open (presumably to monitor any unauthorised police activity while he was called away).

"Hello, thank you so much for seeing us. I'm Miss Fisher, and this is my dear friend and colleague Miss Williams. We represent the Society for the Support of Distressed Gentlemen."

Jack had to cover his mouth, less sure whether he should laugh, cry, or step out into the hall and offer himself to act the role of a Distressed Gentleman.

"I'm sorry," Dawlish was offering a harassed reply. "If it's a subscription, perhaps another time …?"

"Oh, absolutely not!" came the answer. "No, I do hope you won't think it too awful of us. Believe me, we are both terribly sorry for your loss – aren't we, Miss Williams? But we have asked the morgue to keep us in touch with any chances to help our charity, because it really isn't money we need – it's clothes."

Jack and Hugh exchanged incredulous glances – but yes, she really did have that degree of nerve, and had apparently roped in Mrs Collins as well.

"You see, there are so many in need in our city, and we struggle to keep up; and there are those who would plan to send unwanted garments away to the poor of Africa, but I do think Charity Begins At Home, don't you?"

"Why, yes …"

Jack almost had it in him to feel sorry for Dawlish. Had he not himself been wiping tears of silent laughter from his eyes, he might have proffered a handkerchief.

"So, if you feel at all able, might we have a little look to see if there's anything our Distressed Gentlemen might be able to use?"

"Well, I … there are other callers here …" stammered Dawlish.

"Oh, please, we couldn't possibly drag you away from your guests. Please, we'll be as quiet as mice; if you could just show us where things are, we can have a little look – in the most sensitive way, of course! A lot of people, you see, simply can't face _looking_ at a relative's clothing, so our service is really very often a mercy, we find. Is it upstairs? We can find our own way. Please, don't let us disturb you. We'll give you a little call when we leave, just so that you know we're off. Thank you so much. First on the right?"

"Second – second on the right …"

"Thank you _so_ much!"

There was a scuttling of feet on the stairs, and a moment later, Dawlish appeared at the study door.

He was a little dazed, and looked at the two policemen in confusion for a moment. Fortunately, Jack had recovered his composure, although Hugh was still rather pale at the thought of what Mrs Collins might be getting up to.

Had he been able to see her rifling through another man's underwear drawer, he'd have been paler still.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Miss? Er … Phryne?"

Bless her – Dot would never get the hang of Miss Fisher's first name.

"Hmmm?"

Phryne looked across from the wardrobe to where Dot was kneeling beside the chest of drawers.

"Do you know what strikes me?"

"No, Dot – what?" Phryne turned to give her full attention. As a mother of twins, Dorothy Collins was terrifyingly domesticated. As a committed Roman Catholic, she was to Phryne quite mystifying. As an investigative colleague, her insights were invariably worth hearing.

"There doesn't seem to be much here."

Phryne looked, looked again and looked around. "I see what you mean! I wonder if … hang on."

She crept to the door and listened for a moment. The murmur of voices from the study suggested that the policemen, willingly or otherwise, were buying their spouses time. Glancing back, Phryne beckoned Dot, and the two tiptoed out onto the landing. It wasn't hard to identify the master bedroom, and as soon as they were inside, they started to explore.

The opulence was crowned with a four-poster bed, enhanced by velvet hangings in luxurious chocolatey shades. The rest of the furniture was equally heavy and ostentatious, and the surfaces and walls were covered with fussy ornaments and several faux-artistic photographs of a beautiful young man that Phryne had last seen done horribly to death in Little Bourke Street.

"Dot?" Phryne beckoned her partner to join her in front of one such.

"Nice picture, Miss," agreed Dorothy, hesitantly – correctly supposing that they weren't there to admire the art.

"Nice blazer," was Phryne's response.

"Ohhh …" Dot realised the purpose of the exercise, and examined the picture more closely. Then another, taken at the racecourse, in a very natty three-piece. Then another that seemed to be at the beach, in light linen. She folded her lips, and looked back at Phryne.

"Not seen any of these, Miss. Or the shirts."

Phryne inclined her head, and they edged back to the original room. Now that they knew what they were looking for, the search took no time at all. Appropriating the warm woollen coat from the wardrobe, they descended the stairs noisily, and Phryne called out blithely as they crossed the hall.

"That's us leaving, Mr Dawlish, thank you so much!"

The study door was snatched open.

"Oh, are you …?"

"Yes, all done. I think this coat will be absolutely wonderful for one of our gentlemen, if you think you can spare it?" asked Phryne innocently.

"Well, yes, of course – perhaps if I could just …" Dawlish reached for it, and Phryne obligingly gave it up, to allow him to check the pockets. Finding them empty, he rather feebly handed it back.

"Oh, quite right," Phryne nodded approvingly. "One can't be too careful. So, if you're sure?"

Even in asking, she had already turned for the door, Dot at her heels.

As she opened it, she turned back to offer a farewell smile to the Generous Benefactor; and met the gaze, over his shoulder, of a Sardonic Detective who had come out into the hallway, his Apprehensive Sergeant at his shoulder.

The smile became dazzling.

"Come on, Miss Williams, I think we should take this wonderful coat straight to the office. I know there's a gentleman who'd be _very_ interested in what we've found. Thank you again, Mr Dawlish, for your extraordinary generosity!" With a cheerful smile, she practically skipped out of the house, Dot at her heels.

"I think we can conclude our business for now, Mr Dawlish," offered Jack. Recalled to awareness of his other visitors, the man turned and frowned.

"Is there nothing you can do without correspondence, Inspector?" he asked. "Have I to give up all hope of finding Seth's killer, simply because he was a poor letter writer?"

Jack reflected that the deceased must in that case have been a fairly useless accountant, but forbore to say so.

"I think the best we can do is circulate a picture in the area he was found," he said instead. "Do you have something we could use? We might then find someone who saw him and the person he met."

Dawlish hesitated for a moment, and then reached for a portrait on the desk. "Perhaps this?" he suggested. When Jack nodded, he extracted it from the frame, sighed gustily and handed it over.

"Now, could I ask you to excuse me?" said the man plaintively.

The police acquiesced and let themselves out.

"Where to, sir?" asked Collins as he let in the clutch.

"City South," replied Jack, "Although I have a nasty feeling that all the seats in my office will already be taken."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

In some things, such as Miss Fisher's preference for a lie-in of a morning, Chief Inspector Robinson's judgement was infallible.

Thus it proved in this case. When he and Sergeant Collins arrived at City South Police Station, they found his office already occupied and the two occupying parties enjoying a nice cup of tea.

"Hello, Jack!" cried the one sitting in his chair. "You've been _ages_. Didn't you realise we'd found something and wanted to talk?"

"You mean, didn't I realise that your blatant fraud, operated in full sight of two representatives of Victoria's finest, might have led to new evidence, and did I elect to drive at a safe speed in order to find out what it was?" he complained. "Of course I did. I just hope you've found something legitimate to do with the coat you stole, so that I stand the slightest chance of making a case stand up on the basis of your discoveries."

"The coat?" she was momentarily nonplussed. "Oh yes, sorry. It's over there," she waved vaguely in the direction of his office coat-stand. He covered his eyes and groaned inwardly. "I'm sure you can find a worthy recipient, Jack, dear," she said kindly. "It was freely donated, after all."

She leaned forward. "Anyway, that's not what's interesting. It's this. All Tombs' favourite clothes are missing from his wardrobe."

At that, she had their attention. "Go on," said Jack in measured tones.

"It was Dot who put me on to it," she smiled at her business partner, who blushed a little and smiled up in her turn at Sergeant Collins, whose chest swelled visibly with pride that once again, His Dottie had done something important. Phryne went on. "She realised that the only thing remarkable about the clothes in Tombs' room was that there weren't many there. Then we looked at some pictures in Dawlish's room, and discovered at least three suits that were missing."

She clasped her hands on the desk and looked Jack directly in the eye. "What was the deceased wearing when he was found?"

Jack shrugged. "Remember, I only got there once Mac had started work. Collins?"

Hugh Collins started to reach for his notebook, then gazed across the office sightlessly, preferring to remember.

"Dark grey slacks. Pale blue shirt, workman style."

"Coat?"

Collins paused. "Black, cotton, loose fitting."

Dot looked up at him. "Doesn't sound very fashionable?"

He shook his head. "Oh no. Definitely not. Not at all."

Phryne met Dot's look. "Doesn't sound like the Tombs we saw in those pictures, then," Dot remarked.

"And no suitcase or anything lying around. Slumming it, do you think?" Phryne responded.

"Could be," Jack responded. "More than ever, I want to get this picture out and circulated, Collins."

"Yes sir," the sergeant saluted smartly, and took the photo with him.

As he left, Phryne's eye was irresistibly drawn to the handsome policeman left behind. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is it too much to ask that I be allowed possession of my office, Miss Fisher?"

She grinned, and rose with conscious grace. "Not at all, Inspector. I believe we can now leave you in peace, and look forward to hearing the outcome of the next stage of your investigation."

Her calm presumption should have made him irritated. Instead, he struggle to contain a laugh.

"I shall allow anticipation to build to the greatest extent possible," he taunted.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, but will you be home for dinner?"

"Probably," he confirmed idly. "I think the bloke on the pie cart knocks off at about four."

She shook her head disapprovingly. "Rank amateurism. I'm happy to know that Mr Butler might be able to rustle up something that comes close to the culinary delights of a meat pie."

"Might?"

"Will."

"Oh, all right then."

It was as well that Mrs Collins was by that stage in the outer office, having the equivalent conversation with the duty Sergeant. Otherwise, she might have observed some police procedure that had, for very good reason, never been approved by the Chief Commissioner.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"So, Collins - what do we have from the hunt for sightings of Tombs?"

"Two things, sir - neither of which makes a great deal of sense."

"Go on," said Jack, sitting forward with interest. In his experience, the facts that didn't make sense were often the ones that pointed to the answer - and showed him he'd been asking the wrong question.

Collins got out his notebook. "Well, there's been a bunch of cranks as usual, who just want a chat but didn't actually see anything. Then there's the possible sightings that seem unlikely but we've recorded for follow up - like the positive sighting by a lady who lives in Essendon who swears she saw Tombs there."

He flipped over a couple of pages. "But then, there's these two. One, a merchant seaman, says he knows the guy but that he's called Rosy, and he's been AWOL from the ship since Monday. The other is even more weird - a chap who says he saw the guy for definite - on Wednesday. Alive, and walking around. With a suitcase."

"Collins, Tombs was in no condition to carry a suitcase on Wednesday," said Jack disbelievingly. "And about the sailor - is he really called Rosie?"

"Rosy-with-a-y, sir," explained Hugh. The last thing he wanted was to get into reminiscences about the boss' former wife. "On account of a tattoo, apparently. Of a flower."

Jack furrowed his brow, and sat back. There was something nagging at his memory.

"Thanks, Collins - give me a minute."

The sergeant nodded, and closed the office door as he left.

Something that Dawlish had said was a clue. He was sure of it. To do with the funeral? Come to think of it, he'd had to be reminded about the need for one. Then he'd worried about how much it would cost …

 _Insurance_.

All of a sudden, the cogs in his brain were working furiously. How …? No. Surely not. The callous audacity was truly astonishing, if he was right.

"Collins!"

A head popped round the door.

"Get me the telephone number of the Australian Mutual Provident Society."

"Yessir". The head disappeared, and reappeared a minute later, along with the rest of the torso and a slip of paper with a number written on it. Snatching it from Collins' hand, Jack gestured to the seat before his desk with one hand and reached for the telephone with the other.

"Hello. This is Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson and I need to speak to someone in authority as soon as possible. Yes, if the Managing Director is available, he will want to know about this. Yes, I'll wait."

He drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently.

"Hello? Yes, DCI Jack Robinson speaking, but because of what I'm about to tell you, I'm going to encourage you most strongly not to believe me. I'll explain. I am investigating a murder, and I would be very interested to know if you have a policy in operation, insuring the life of one Seth Tombs, of Prahran. If you do, and if it was taken out recently, I would be particularly interested. However, as it's a case of potential fraud, I'm going to hang up now. What I would like is for you to check your company's position and then look up the telephone number of City South Police Station. Ask for me, and then you will be sure that, in this matter at least, you are dealing with the person who is what he claims to be."

There was a pause at the other end of the line, and then a few brief words.

"I quite agree. I look forward to speaking to you soon."

Jack hung up, and looked at Hugh, whose brow was furrowed in confusion.

Jack explained his suspicion.

Hugh blanched. Then he offered to go and ask a key question of a potentially important member of the merchant marine; and the offer was accepted with alacrity.

In the few minutes that had taken, the telephone rang. Jack gestured to Hugh to remain seated as he picked up the receiver.

"DCI Robinson. Yes, I did. Have you … I see. Is that unusual? Yes. Today? Good Lord. What time? Please tell your people to say nothing, and to expect me. No, thank _you._ "

He replaced the receiver.

"Get the car, Collins - I think we're about to catch a fraudster, who can lead us to a murderer."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Stopping only to detail Constable White (Chalky to his friends and colleagues, for deeply unimaginative but wholly traditional reasons) to go and ask a key question of a sailor, thereby redeeming the lad's reputation for his woeful performance at a murder scene, Collins retrieved the vehicle and they made good time to the insurance company's offices.

"Round the back, Collins," said Jack tersely, and with immediate understanding, Hugh put the car out of sight of the front entrance. Jack checked his watch; twenty minutes to go. He decided they were safe to use the front door, and discovered a welcoming committee in the form of Darius Small, Managing Director, waiting to whisk them to his office. There was a tall, bespectacled gentleman awaiting them there, introduced as Mr Binns, Claims Manager.

"Mr Binns will be performing the interview. This really is the most extraordinary circumstance, Inspector," said Small. "Are you quite sure of your facts?"

"No, I'm not," Jack admitted. "But I've learned not to put my neck on the line until I'm reasonably certain, and if Tombs took out a large policy only a matter of months ago, I think we've got cause to ask some awkward questions of the person who presents the claim - especially if they're doing so only a matter of hours after the death."

He tilted his head at Small. "To me, that smacks of desperation."

Small nodded. "That, I'll allow. A young man in good health; to insure his life, even for such a sum as twenty thousand, was very reasonable. From our actuaries' perspective, the risk was negligible."

Jack smiled slightly. "I wouldn't sack your actuaries quite yet, Mr Small. If I'm right, their assessment of the risk was spot on; and I'm assuming you don't have to pay out if the client's death is because he's found guilty of a felony?"

"Well, no." Small squirmed at the implication of the punishment for said felony. "What would you like us to do?"

Jack explained. Mr Binns, once he caught the gist, began to smile in that gentle, unassuming and faintly evil way that only a trained actuary can. He made a few careful notes in his pad, and asked a couple of very pertinent questions which nonetheless made the Inspector rather glad that he hadn't decided on a career in finance.

While Jack was winding up his peroration, the telephone rang on Small's desk. He picked it up, and listened.

"For you, Inspector. A Constable White?"

Jack thanked him and took the receiver. "Constable? Did you find him? Good. And …? Thank you. As we thought. Good work, White."

He hung up, and regarded the assembled company with satisfaction.

"I think we can now be almost certain that the deceased is not, as the gentleman on his way to your office is about to claim, Seth Tombs."

"Thank you, Inspector," said Small. "In that case, I think we can find a way to … expedite your investigation. Would you agree, Mr Binns?"

"Oh yes, sir," the other replied. "After all, identification is a very tricky matter. Very tricky indeed," he smiled. "I believe you said there was a question of a birthmark?"

Even as Jack nodded, Hugh Collins started to exclaim, "But sir, Tombs had a birthmark!"

"Only on the photograph Dawlish showed us from his wallet, Collins," corrected Jack matter-of-factly. "The photograph from his desk did not. I suspect the first version was one they'd prepared specially for us."

Binns was pulling on his lip pensively. "Yes, I think I can do this for you, Inspector. If Mr Dawlish attempts to describe either the deceased or Mr Tombs, he will fall over on this matter; and I will then come and fetch you. Is that satisfactory?"

The Inspector confirmed that this would indeed be satisfactory, and when the telephone again rang to announce Dawlish's arrival, Binns excused himself.

Within a mere quarter of an hour, Binns was back.

"Mr Dawlish is currently having a cup of tea while I fetch a file, Inspector," he said calmly. "He has, however, confirmed that, in complete accordance with our records, his very good friend Mr Tombs had no disfigurements, disabilities or blemishes of any kind - the young man, indeed, appears to have been the very vision of human perfection. Mr Dawlish expects that the doctor's certificate will be sufficient for us to release funds. I am happy to confirm that this will not be the case, as we have material doubts about the identity of the deceased to which the doctor's certificate refers. Would you like to take it from here?"

"Delighted to, Mr Binns; and please accept my grateful thanks."

Summoning Collins to join him, Jack followed the manager down one floor to an interview room. Binns bowed slightly and left them at the door; Jack opened it, and strolled in, to see Dawlish in the act of sipping tea with one hand and industriously picking his nose with the other.

"Mr Dawlish," Jack greeted him courteously.

The man was sufficiently startled to spill a little tea on his lap; that made him wince, which made the rest of the contents of the cup land on his leg.

Jack watched his agonies impassively.

"Inspector," eventually managed the man. "What - why?" He had a handkerchief out and was ineffectually dabbing at the stains on his trousers.

"Oh, just a routine question, sir," said Jack. "It's about a murder investigation, and I think you might be able to help us find the killer."

"But of course - I mean, anything I can do - but I really don't think - poor Seth …" stammered Dawlish.

"Oh, no, this is a quite different murder, sir" explained Jack. "I'm talking about the death of a merchant seaman called Edward Rose - nicknamed Rosy, I believe."

Dawlish went a particularly moist shade of pallid.

"We believe him to have been murdered on Monday night last in Little Bourke Street, and would therefore be interested in knowing the whereabouts of a gentleman who closely resembles him, for our investigations in relation to the murder. So, my question, Mr Dawlish, is this ..."

Jack stepped closer. If Dawlish could have shrunk any further away, he would have done.

"Where's Seth Tombs?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"How can he possibly not know?!"

Miss Fisher was in Jack's office, in her best clothes and incandescent.

The clothes were because she was fresh from a final fitting and she thought the new frock deserved an outing. The visit to Jack's office was because she'd fully expected to get the scoop on Dawlish's arrest. The fireworks were because she was disappointed.

"I'm afraid to say I believe him," Jack shrugged. "If there was any doubt before in my mind, it's long gone. Seth Tombs is a beautiful manipulator with an eye to the long game - after all, it's almost a year since they first met Rose - and Tombs has wrapped Dawlish around his little finger. Reassuringly expensive, too."

"Hence the need for the insurance job, I suppose," concluded Phryne, slumping into his guest chair and propping a gloomy face on a sulky fist.

"No doubt. But the fact of the matter is that Tombs decided he was better lying low."

"Don't call me, I'll call you? I can well imagine. After all, it would take him a while to wash the blood from his hands," she muttered. "The swine. I've seen some brutality, but to cut the tattoo from Rose's chest just so that his identity could be confused?"

"We've got someone in the house," soothed Jack. "If the telephone rings, or there's post, or anyone calls - we'll know. Right now, Tombs doesn't know anything's wrong. If things went to plan, the cheque would have been lodged in their account by now and the two of them would be hightailing it out of here."

Phryne scowled, then froze.

"The two of them?" she asked no-one in particular. "Jack, what do we know of Seth Tombs so far?"

"That he's a beautiful, self-centred murderer?" offered Jack sardonically.

"Quite." She sat up and raised her eyebrows. "Just the type of person to hang around waiting for the likes of Dawlish when there's a small fortune sitting in a bank account waiting to be lifted and recycled by a beautiful ne'er-do-well with his own best interests placed firmly front and centre."

Jack sat back and stroked his jaw pensively. "So, if the money doesn't turn up in the account, what does he do then?"

They both paused for thought. Phryne was the first to speak.

"He panics. And then he makes a run for it."

The words weren't even out of her mouth before Jack was out of his chair and commanding all those within earshot to get people at the airport, seaports, train and bus stations with a description and ideally a photograph of Seth Tombs.

He then stood, hands in pockets, in the centre of City South and gazed out of the window. How else might a murderer make for the hills?

It was a great day for a walk; consequently, a very bad day for Melbourne's taxi trade. Cec and Bert had been waiting outside Flinders Street for fully half an hour, with never a whisper of a fare.

Cec glanced around, wondering if it would be frowned upon to suggest a quick cuppa, when he saw a figure by the news stand that made his eyes start out of his head.

"Hang on, that's him."

"Who?"

"The dead bloke. That's him, over there."

"Cec, I know you're a bit uptight about the wedding and such, but if you're seeing ghosts …"

"THERE! Beside the paper shop!"

"Wha … bloody hell."

"What do we do?"

"We take him to the Inspector, Cec, mate. Nice and quiet, like." Bert, having grasped the challenge swiftly, explained the plan. Cec listened, liked and smiled that very endearing smile he could conjure up when he knew there were fisticuffs in the offing.

"Beaut" was his only reaction, though, and he went to circle round behind the suspect.

It was, in the event, so very simple.

"Here, is your name Tombs?" asked Bert. His tone may have been belligerent. The jury, had the issue arisen, would have forgiven him.

His audience started, glared, and took a swing at his interlocutor.

Bert, expecting it, dodged and got away with a nasty bruise on his arm.

Tombs turned to run, as any sensible murdering fraudster might.

He was then met with the immovable object of Cec's famous Left.

Losing the battle, he collapsed into Bert's waiting arms; Cec swept up the legs in one hand and the suitcase in the other.

It wasn't the cheapest fare the City of Melbourne Police had ever refunded to a taxi driver, but it definitely offered better value than the rest.

It only remained to negotiate the reward; and while at least one of the red-raggers was starting to entertain slightly higher hopes, they seemed destined to be dashed.

"On Tuesday? I'm sorry, Cec, it's out of the question," said Phryne firmly.

"Told you so," said Bert with morose satisfaction. Cec's shoulders slumped.

"Unless you let Jack drive."

"Eh?" Both red-raggers' heads were raised in unanimous confusion.

"You idiots," explained Phryne patiently, "Tuesday is Jack's birthday. Didn't you know?"

They admitted that they didn't. Bert privately wondered whether anyone other than the man's parents and Mrs Robinson did, given that his personal mascot, Elizabeth Jane, was still a bit fuzzy on dates.

(Oh, and Mr Butler, of course, but he knew everything).

"It's quite straightforward," Phryne warmed to her topic. "Alice can ride to the church in the Hispano, as long as Jack is allowed to drive her. He loves driving that car, and I've arranged for him to have the chance to take it to the race track and give it a proper outing. I tell him he has to drive Alice to the church. He agrees, in that lovely, biddable manner of his," (at this both the red-raggers exchanged glances that recalled several utterly unbiddable moments of Inspectorly Ire, but thought it best to Remain Silent), "and having watched Cec and Alice get hitched, and taken them on to the wedding breakfast, we excuse ourselves to … well, celebrate."

She smiled in a way that encouraged her audience to entertain mildly wistful thoughts, even if one was already spoken for and both were too frightened to have done anything about it anyway.

The plan was applauded with enthusiasm, and the party broke up.


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The lights were going out all over Melbourne. Some, it had to be said, more peacefully than others.

"Cec" … "CEC!" …"Strewth, I give up."  
"OW! What was that for?"  
"You were snoring."  
"That was a boot."  
"Busting-my-eardrums snoring."  
"Ah, sorry, mate."  
"You shouldn't be able to sleep anyway. Marrying Alice tomorrow."  
"Yeaaaah … bonzer."

"Cec, mate, you're snoring again."

"Alice, wherever you are, I hope you've got cloth ears. You're going to need 'em."

"Daddy?"  
"Meggie, what are you doing out of bed?"  
"I couldn't sleep. Can I have a drink of water?"  
"Ah … okay, hang on."

"Mummy?"  
"Gid, it's the middle of the night, why aren't you asleep?"  
"I can't find Meggie."  
"I think she went to the kitchen with Daddy."  
"Oh. I'll go and look."

"Hugh?"  
"Hugh."  
"Ngg … Dottie, what is it? Please don't tell me you want a drink of water too."  
"No, Hugh. I'm just … a bit cold."  
"Cold? Dot, it's practically tropical in here."  
"I know. I just … can I come and … no, move your arm. That's it."  
"Dottie?"  
"Yes, Hugh?"  
"Are you quite sure you don't want a drink of water?"  
"A drink of water? No, dear."

"Oh. I see. So you think the children need a little sister, Mrs Collins."  
"They might, Sergeant Collins. They just might. Or even a little brother."  
"Well … you know how I hate to disappoint them."  
"You're a very generous man, Hugh."  
"No need to laugh about it, Dottie. I am very generous."  
"Goodness. So you are."

"Tobias?"  
"Yes."

"Are you sure you don't mind, Prudence?"  
"Mind what, Richard dear?"  
"Well – the dinner. Going the way it did."  
"Of course not. These people are friends, and they are happy for me. For us both."  
"But they left when we'd scarcely finished coffee?"  
"As I said, they're friends."

"Jack?"  
"Mmm?"  
"Thank you."  
"You're thanking me? You're the one who seems to have laid on the birthday of my dreams."  
"Yes, Jack darling. I was trying, for once, and from the very bottom of my frequently shallow heart – to thank you. Although, talking of things being laid on …"  
"… is that a request for a certain brand of marital hospitality, Mrs Robinson?"  
"It is, Mr Robinson. Please, recline. Recline like mad. Recline for Australia."  
"Would you like me to sing the National Anthem at the same time?"  
"Whatever makes you happy, Jack. Whatever makes you happy." 


End file.
